


Demons

by FullElven



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcholism, M/M, Self-Harm, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-02
Updated: 2014-05-01
Packaged: 2018-01-21 14:18:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1553384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FullElven/pseuds/FullElven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean kills Abaddon and Metatron, but soon finds himself at the mercy of the Mark of Cain and not entirely hating it. Unsure where it ends and he begins, Castiel must help Dean hold onto his humanity or lose him forever to Hell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Demons

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger Warnings for alcoholism, self-harm, and violence. More may be added as chapters are updated. Lyrics from Demons by Imagine Dragons.

_I wanna hide the truth_

_I wanna shelter you_

_But with the beast inside_

_There’s nowhere we can hide_

Dean’s eyes were black.

 

The cold stone floor was coated in blood from one supernatural creature or another, demons and angels alike, looking every bit the battlefield it had been. Dean stood amidst the carnage, breathing heavily, so soaked to the bone with blood and viscera that it was impossible to tell whether or not he’d been injured.

 

And Dean’s eyes were black as sin.

 

It wasn’t the all-encompassing void within those once green eyes that frightened Castiel, trying to ignore that old adage that claimed that eyes were the windows to the soul. No, it was the wicked half-smile that the eldest Winchester wore; the look of pure unadulterated exhilaration of having cut through flesh and bone like a hot angel blade through demonic butter.

 

How far gone was he?

 

Castiel pulled himself up from where he sat, trying to pull himself together enough to objectively see the situation. Certainly… _certainly_ he was imagining things. One step. Two. He attempted to cross the distance between himself and Dean. The sole of his shoe slid on the sticky crimson slick on the concrete, so bright and vivid against the lifeless grey. He nearly tripped over the severed head of Abaddon, bright eyes clouded now, lovely red-hair tangled, mouth slightly agape as if frozen in her disbelief that the Winchester had bested her.

 

His every sense prickled, tingled, the tiny hairs beneath the collar of his tan trenchcoat stood on end as he slowly reached out for Dean, surprised at his own apprehension and the way his hand trembled. The angel knew he wasn’t afraid of Dean, it was the fear of _losing_ him to this.

 

_Please, Father, if you’re anywhere out there…if you can hear me at all…don’t let Dean be too far gone. Please don’t let him be too far gone._

 

Dean’s skin was warm, _ridiculously so_ , though he jerked his hand away the moment the angel barely brushed it. It was a fluid movement that brought the First Blade around in a lethal arc and it was sheer instinct that allowed Castiel to catch Dean’s wrist in a crushing grip before he lost his head. There was no familiarity on the hunter’s face to stare at the very man who’d raised him from Perdition, the angel that had become one of his closest friends over the years, and Cas swallowed hard to realized it.

 

“Dean. I know you’re in there.” Those blue eyes stared hopefully into those black pits, noting the way they seemed to absorb the light around them, the way the shadows hung a little heavier around the Winchester. He fought him, and with a swift palm to the chest, Castiel found himself being propelled backward against the opposite wall. The back of his head hit hard enough from the preternatural force that it sent his vision to sparking a moment.

 

There was barely a moment to think before he could feel his tightening grip around his neck, raising him off the ground to stare up at him with a sickening grin. He was enjoying it, and Cas grabbed at his palm with both hands, trying to pry him off. Kicking, thrashing, nothing broke Dean’s grip. Instead he squeezed harder, and Castiel gasped. “ _Dean_ ,” he barely croaked out. “ _It’s me. Cas. Dean, please.”_

His head canted to the side slightly, the smile just starting to fade. There was some recognition there, but just barely. It was enough that the angel was able to finally pry his hand enough that he slipped from his grasp, coughing as he pawed the quickly purpling bruise on his throat. “Don’t…be…gone, Dean. Please…don’t….be gone. I need…you. _I_ _need you_.”

 

Dean stood there, watching the angel try to gather himself as he pleaded, the words sounding a million miles away and muffled beneath the sound of the blood rushing through his veins. Everything washed out and grey scale save for the beautiful pools of red splattered against it, so bright, so lively, calling him away with every pump of his heart.

 

_I need you._

 

Little by little, color bled back into his world, saturation returning in exchange for a flood of both emotion and exhaustion. His hand trembled, and the First Blade clattered to the floor, the sound being so crisp and clear against the muted world he’d been in that it frightened him. Dean flinched, blinking as the inky black gave way to that impossible green. His chest heaved for breath in a sudden panic as recollection overwhelmed him.

 

What had he done?

 

“Cas?”

 

“Dean?” He breathed, looking up sheepishly. It could very well be a trick, he knew that all too well, but in seeing those green eyes look at him he broke. Something in Castiel broke, and suddenly his vision was blurring and he was hugging Dean’s legs…trying and _failing_ to keep from crying into the hunter’s blood-covered jeans.

 

It wasn’t the reaction Dean expected at all. Anger, relief, confusion…a punch to the face. All of those things would have been applicable, and yet as usual, Cas had to be the wild card and…wait…was his thigh getting wet? Was he _crying_? “Cas?”

 

“I…thought…you were lost…” he breathed into the rough material, clutching a little tighter than was comfortable, and Dean looked around to see if anyone was conscious. “I thought…I thought…”

 

“Shhh…” Dean soothed softly, rubbing Castiel’s shoulder and breathing a heavy sigh of his own that shook with unshed emotion. “I’m sorry, Cas. Jesus, I don’t…it’s this mark…it’s making me crazy. I can’t…sometimes I can’t tell where its influence ends and I begin.”

 

“I can’t lose you, Dean.”

 

The hunter’s soothing movements stuttered, and he stared down at him, unsure of he heard him right. After a beat, he removed the angel from his leg and knelt down to meet his eyes. Despite the guilt, the potent self-loathing he felt for not being strong enough to fight this mark, he forced himself to meet the reddened eyes of Castiel and strangely found some strengthened resolve in doing so. “You’re not gonna to lose me, alright? I can’t do this alone though, Cas. You called me back.” He pressed two fingers into the center of his chest. “Not me, not Sammy, _you._ I wasn’t lyin’ when I told you I needed you.”

 

“I need you too, Dean.” The angel returned softly, his voice gruff from tears yet unshed. He adverted his gaze a moment, staring at the wet spot he’d made on Dean’s jeans. “Your pants are wet.”

 

“Wha?” Brown brows furrowed as he looked down, understanding soon coloring his features. “Ah, yeah well, we’re both a mess. C’mon. Let’s get cleaned up.”

 

And that was that, or so Castiel hoped, as Dean helped him up and they made their way out through sprawling hallways and corridors.

 

\---

_  
When you feel my heat_

_Look into my eyes_

_It’s where my demons hide_

_It’s where my demons hide_

_Don’t get too close_

_It’s dark inside_

_It’s where my demons hide_

_It’s where my demons hide_

  
They didn’t go back to the bunker.

 

The cool April night interrupted by a frigid North wind that bit at them and stole their breath, but neither of them rolled the windows of the Impala up as they sped down the highway, some 80s band blaring over the speakers, a slight warbling to the sound from how often Dean had run the cassette. They didn’t look at each other, they didn’t talk about the cursed blade that was stashed away carelessly in the trunk, or the way Cas had to call to Dean to get him to close said trunk afterward.

 

They had the night air, the open road, and the company of each other…and it seemed to be enough for the moment.

 

Unspoken words hung heavy in the air, but neither seemed ready to break the silence, instead letting the classic rock fill the distance between them. It was a unique feeling…to be closer to a person than you’d ever been, and yet far enough away that it felt as if the distance taunted you. Yet, that was exactly how Castiel felt. He leaned his head closer to the open window, felt as the rushing air slid over his scalp and screwed up his dark hair, and closed his eyes to it. If he tried hard enough, it was almost as if he were flying again.

 

That was something else he didn’t talk about, didn’t dare to burden Dean with. That stolen grace, how it burned in him at times, and others it flickered like a light bulb with a short. He didn’t tell Dean that it was part of why he didn’t fight back when he’d hit him…among other wordless reasons that he didn’t care to get into.

 

He cast a side glance at Dean as a rhythmic tapping found his ears, watching as he absently tapped along to a drum solo, singing along in a voice that was just barely audible above the music. Cast in shadow, every couple meters, a streetlight would illuminate him and chase back the darkness before he was lost to him again.

 

He watched him like that, knowing full well that he shouldn’t have found it so breathtaking, for what it was. Dean was burying it, burying everything and pretending it didn’t happen. Digging a Classic Rock grave for it, and dressing his pain in drum lines and electric guitar solos, all the while pretending no one could see him do it.

 

Castiel did.

 

It was unexpected when he realized that instead of the bunker, they’d ended up at the first dive motel off from the interstate. Dean paid while Cas stood silently in the background, confused but content to follow along in the hunter’s wake. The guy behind the counter had snorted when Dean had asked for two Queens, and there was a tenseness in the air where Cas thought for sure Dean would hit him. Luckily it passed harmlessly, and they were given their key.

 

There was nothing noteworthy about the place, Dean grabbing his duffle bag before unlocking the door and kicking his boots off just across the threshold. The single lamp in the living/bedroom area was dim and yellow, casting shadows across the faux wood paneled wall. The hunter went about closing the blinds only to find one had a few of the plastic strips broken off from it in the corner.

 

Castiel simply strolled behind, closing and latching the door and removing his dirty trench coat to put across the back of the chair. It wasn’t as cozy as the bunker was, but then again, the atmosphere around Dean was anything but cozy, despite what he wanted to pretend. “Are you alright?”

 

Dean didn’t turn as he dug through the duffle and pulled out a clean outfit and his toothbrush. “Yeah.  Just tired, want to get out of this crap.” Having what he wanted, he nudged the bag and nodded toward it as he finally gave Cas his eyes. “There’s clothes in there, unless you want to sleep in those.”

 

He nodded softly, pushing himself to his feet, watching Dean in that piercing sort of way as if maybe somehow he could see through him to that corruption from the mark. Perhaps if he had _his_ grace, he could. For now, all he could see was a troubled Winchester who was exiting quickly through the bathroom and closing the door in his wake. A few minutes later, and he could hear the whine of pipes as the shower came on.

 

The angel nosed through the bag, seeing what there was left clean, soon stripping off his suit in favor for a soft grey cotton shirt and a pair of Dean’s jeans. They rested a little low on his hips, length long enough on them to drag beneath his feet. They were comfortable, well broken in, a grease stain on one leg and a hole in another that the angel pondered where it came from.

 

His attention flitted between this and that, exploring the small room, before resigning to the edge of his bed to flick on the television. Cas wasn’t even all that sure where the channel ended up, losing himself to his worry about Dean the longer he was gone. It wasn’t until the channel replaced its programming for static that his worry grew to full blown concern, the shower still running. The springs creaked in protest as he pushed himself to stand, bare feet padding across worn shag carpeting to the bathroom door.

 

Pressing his ear flat against the thin wood, he listened to see if he could hear Dean moving about in there, only to hear the uninterrupted steady patter of the water against the plastic tub flooring. “Dean?” Pause. Silence. “Dean?!” He tried again, nothing still. His heart pattered a little harder in his chest, and he swallowed, trying the knob.

 

Surprisingly enough, the knob turned easily in his hand and the door creaked open loudly on the hinges. “Dean? I’m coming in,” he warned as he pressed in, expecting to be met with a face of built up steam. Instead, however, he was met with the intermittent spray of frigid water from the poorly sealed shower head as it sprayed over the top of the drab off-white curtain.

 

There was no reason Dean hadn’t heard him now that he was in the room. “Are you alright?”

 

“…C-Cas…” Came the shivering reply softly.

 

The angel threw open that curtain to find Dean sitting with his back against the tub as the cold water pelted him in the face, his left arm covered in self-inflicted cuts, the bottom of the tub pink as the water continued to rinse the bleeding wounds. “Dean, what—“

 

“I n-needed to f-feel a-anything….a-anyt-thing but t-the mark..” he explained shivering, and Castiel reached in to turn the water off. He reached for the scratchy, worn towel that passed for decent in the hotel and offered it toward Dean who just stared numbly at it as if he wasn’t quite sure what he was supposed to do with it.

 

A little awkwardly, the angel reached in with his hand for Dean’s right hand. The hunter flinched at first before he finally gave in and gave it to Cas to let him help him up. It wasn’t until he was on his feet that he was painfully aware of the fact that he was nude, and finally took the towel. “Dry off, I will get the bandages.” And with that, he stooped to pick up Dean’s dirty clothes, his pocket knife in the bottom of the shower, and the razor for good measure before he left Dean to his devices.


End file.
